Entkommen
running & running
Breathe, breathe, don't choke, just breathe and.
And what?
The snow is so bitter and cold and unwanted, but so persistent. Too persistent. “I heard, maybe, I'm not sure.” I turn to Ismael. “Where now?” Yes, where now Ismael. Where? Grabbing a loaf of stale bread, a hole-ridden coat and a stink rotten cap, out of the ghetto, you said. Anywhere but they ghetto, you said. Freedom, you insisted; just like the snow. You got everywhere and now look where this got us, and now you can't even...
“Ismael?” I'm trying to breathe through the wool that stinks of saliva I coughed up. “I don't think-” what did I think? The gestapo will come. My heart feels crude, the raw blood in my veins going wild and uncontrolled. The back of my neck and the small of my back candle wax against my panic. “Ismael?” I pull down the scarf, licking my chapped lips and rubbing my unkempt beard. His breathing is too ragged and too deep; like a panicked dog.
“Back then, back...” He collapses against the old tree behind us, pulling the wool coat tighter. I can hear how the snow crunches as he slides down. “Lidia,” he sobs, “oh, Lidia what have we...” I grab his shoulder, pressing a finger against his lips. My knees ache. This was no time for regrets, I noticed. No time for fear.
'Szkop,' I mouth as we both stand, listening to the faraway barks of the shepherds and the gestapo. “Quickly.” I tug Ismael's wrist and start walking forward. If we could simply walk to Warsaw... “Ismael?” I turn around, tasting panic and desperation on the back of my throat. Ismael wasn't looking at me, his back turned to freedom, instead facing imprisonment. I grab a fistful of his filthy coat. “We'll come back for them, just like you told me.” He was breaking when I needed him most. “Hurry Ismael, if a szkop sees us...” He turns to me.
“What have we done, Jakub?”
My blood runs colder than before, my reverent resolve stifling under his accusation. His eyes, I've never seen a man with such eyes. I felt sick. “We need to go,” I say with difficulty. “Now.” I don't feel my fingers come in touch with his coat anymore, it is too cold and the moment too urgent. “If we could just walk towards Warsaw, I'm sure we could.” I stop trotting, turning around to see if Ismael was behind me. “Hurry,” I hiss, trying to discern his shadow under the waning moon. Running and running and running; we were partially blind, but it did not matter. Just a little further and freedom. The trees were thicker than ever, the snow relentless as before, but there was something different.
I couldn't hear the dogs.
I stopped moving. “Ismael,” I gasp, “free men.” I press my numb hand against the nearest tree, the smell of pines and night filling up my lungs. “We're free men, my friend!” I grin with undeniable happiness, for a moment forgetting about my abandoned family, destined to starve in the hands of fascists; for a moment, forgetting of the dirty Germans hunting our blood, not even a mile away from us. For a moment, I tasted what few Jews did. And it was beautiful.
I lick my lips again, tasting frost and coughing up the remaining fatigue in me,“Is... isma-”
The word dies behind my lungs, the sensation of vertigo and despair filling them up instead. I cannot turn around, cannot look, cannot comprehend. I choke and whimper once or twice, squeezing my eyes and feeling warmth trickle down my cheeks. I can't swallow the thick aroma of death.
“Ja..” he mewls helplessly. “Jakie.” I slowly drop to my knees, crawling near him and pressing my dirty hands on his chest. It feels warm, and my hands stop being numb. He's slowly fading and no matter how hard I press, he keeps slipping between my fingers.
“It's alright now,” I am crying with him. “Remember, Lidia and little Irena,” he opens his eyes and swallows. Judes, I hear behind me. Shoot the judes.
He moves his lips, words spelling out mother and God. I lean closer. His breath stinks of days without care and months without hope. “Wolność,” he grits out. Freedom, his eyes cry out. I grab his collar, the stains of dirt and poverty overlapped by the blood dripping from his chin. “Remember, Jakub,” his forehead is against mine, his breath stronger than before. “Freedom is not free,” he kisses my left cheek, salt and blood staining my already dirty beard. I kiss him back, unable to contain my sorrow and fear. The judes, I heard them. I see the judes.
“God bless you, Ismael,” I choke on a sob, gently placing him down. The shepherd were too close, the echo of their barks too loud. I couldn't stand up fast enough, my sodden boots heavy with grief and snow. “God,” I whisper, “full of mercy.” My hands tear away branches and bushes, the stiff wood digging into my arms and legs. “Full of, of mercy. Who dwells.” I close my eyes and press forward, my voice louder than before. The barks of the shepherds, the shouts, the jude, the jude. I'm the jude. “Who dwells up high!” I'm running away now, the tears leaking through unwilling eyes, fear dripping from willing words.
“Feuer!”
I could taste freedom.
And what?
The snow is so bitter and cold and unwanted, but so persistent. Too persistent. “I heard, maybe, I'm not sure.” I turn to Ismael. “Where now?” Yes, where now Ismael. Where? Grabbing a loaf of stale bread, a hole-ridden coat and a stink rotten cap, out of the ghetto, you said. Anywhere but they ghetto, you said. Freedom, you insisted; just like the snow. You got everywhere and now look where this got us, and now you can't even...
“Ismael?” I'm trying to breathe through the wool that stinks of saliva I coughed up. “I don't think-” what did I think? The gestapo will come. My heart feels crude, the raw blood in my veins going wild and uncontrolled. The back of my neck and the small of my back candle wax against my panic. “Ismael?” I pull down the scarf, licking my chapped lips and rubbing my unkempt beard. His breathing is too ragged and too deep; like a panicked dog.
“Back then, back...” He collapses against the old tree behind us, pulling the wool coat tighter. I can hear how the snow crunches as he slides down. “Lidia,” he sobs, “oh, Lidia what have we...” I grab his shoulder, pressing a finger against his lips. My knees ache. This was no time for regrets, I noticed. No time for fear.
'Szkop,' I mouth as we both stand, listening to the faraway barks of the shepherds and the gestapo. “Quickly.” I tug Ismael's wrist and start walking forward. If we could simply walk to Warsaw... “Ismael?” I turn around, tasting panic and desperation on the back of my throat. Ismael wasn't looking at me, his back turned to freedom, instead facing imprisonment. I grab a fistful of his filthy coat. “We'll come back for them, just like you told me.” He was breaking when I needed him most. “Hurry Ismael, if a szkop sees us...” He turns to me.
“What have we done, Jakub?”
My blood runs colder than before, my reverent resolve stifling under his accusation. His eyes, I've never seen a man with such eyes. I felt sick. “We need to go,” I say with difficulty. “Now.” I don't feel my fingers come in touch with his coat anymore, it is too cold and the moment too urgent. “If we could just walk towards Warsaw, I'm sure we could.” I stop trotting, turning around to see if Ismael was behind me. “Hurry,” I hiss, trying to discern his shadow under the waning moon. Running and running and running; we were partially blind, but it did not matter. Just a little further and freedom. The trees were thicker than ever, the snow relentless as before, but there was something different.
I couldn't hear the dogs.
I stopped moving. “Ismael,” I gasp, “free men.” I press my numb hand against the nearest tree, the smell of pines and night filling up my lungs. “We're free men, my friend!” I grin with undeniable happiness, for a moment forgetting about my abandoned family, destined to starve in the hands of fascists; for a moment, forgetting of the dirty Germans hunting our blood, not even a mile away from us. For a moment, I tasted what few Jews did. And it was beautiful.
I lick my lips again, tasting frost and coughing up the remaining fatigue in me,“Is... isma-”
The word dies behind my lungs, the sensation of vertigo and despair filling them up instead. I cannot turn around, cannot look, cannot comprehend. I choke and whimper once or twice, squeezing my eyes and feeling warmth trickle down my cheeks. I can't swallow the thick aroma of death.
“Ja..” he mewls helplessly. “Jakie.” I slowly drop to my knees, crawling near him and pressing my dirty hands on his chest. It feels warm, and my hands stop being numb. He's slowly fading and no matter how hard I press, he keeps slipping between my fingers.
“It's alright now,” I am crying with him. “Remember, Lidia and little Irena,” he opens his eyes and swallows. Judes, I hear behind me. Shoot the judes.
He moves his lips, words spelling out mother and God. I lean closer. His breath stinks of days without care and months without hope. “Wolność,” he grits out. Freedom, his eyes cry out. I grab his collar, the stains of dirt and poverty overlapped by the blood dripping from his chin. “Remember, Jakub,” his forehead is against mine, his breath stronger than before. “Freedom is not free,” he kisses my left cheek, salt and blood staining my already dirty beard. I kiss him back, unable to contain my sorrow and fear. The judes, I heard them. I see the judes.
“God bless you, Ismael,” I choke on a sob, gently placing him down. The shepherd were too close, the echo of their barks too loud. I couldn't stand up fast enough, my sodden boots heavy with grief and snow. “God,” I whisper, “full of mercy.” My hands tear away branches and bushes, the stiff wood digging into my arms and legs. “Full of, of mercy. Who dwells.” I close my eyes and press forward, my voice louder than before. The barks of the shepherds, the shouts, the jude, the jude. I'm the jude. “Who dwells up high!” I'm running away now, the tears leaking through unwilling eyes, fear dripping from willing words.
“Feuer!”
I could taste freedom.